


moonlighting

by manbunjon



Series: cigarettes and coffee [4]
Category: BlacKkKlansman (2018)
Genre: Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, F/M, Light Dom/sub, Public Nudity, Semi-Public Sex, Undercover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-04-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:15:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23707480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manbunjon/pseuds/manbunjon
Summary: "He wants to memorise the look in your eyes, the expression on your face, the way you look up at him, eyes so bright and wide, glowing silver in the bare moonlight. He’s been thinking about you, dreaming about you, licking his palm and bringing himself off just looking at that wrinkled up old polaroid of you hidden behind another frame at the safe house, freshly fucked and glowing, all sleepy eyes and swollen lips and skin that still shone with the sweat he’d rubbed off onto you.You say his name over and over like a prayer, like a song, kissing him and kissing him and kissing him. He feels drunk, he feels more sober than he's ever been. He's angry that he's missed so much time with you, he's happy that he has you now. He wants you here and now, wants you in your bed or on your sofa or on the marble kitchen counter where he's had you a hundred times. He wants to feel your bare skin on his, wants his cock in your mouth, wants his cock inside of you so deep that he can see it in your belly as he fucks up into you."
Relationships: Flip Zimmerman/Reader, Flip Zimmerman/You
Series: cigarettes and coffee [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1551649
Comments: 4
Kudos: 61





	moonlighting

**Author's Note:**

> each fic can be written as a stand alone work, but they’re all part of the same collection “cigarettes and coffee” about the lives of flip zimmerman and the reader :)

It takes him an hour and a half to get to you. 

He stops frequently, stops at stupid places, stops for long enough to peek through the windows of the building and make sure no familiar cars have pulled into the lots behind him. He pulls into the U-turn at the library and is slow to drop off one of the books you had once recommended, using it as an excuse to look into the library's mirror like windows and assure he's alone. 

But he can't be too careful, can't risk it. Can't risk _you_ , not when you're the only thing he cares about, the only goddamn thing tethering him to this earth right now. He doesn't care about the case, doesn't care about the force, doesn't care about his badge or his gun or the fact that if the Captain found out he'd probably be on desk duty for a year. He only cares about you. 

But even then, even enthralled in that desperation that fills him, he doesn't dare risk your safety. 

He stops next at a convenience store, buys things he doesn't really need. A six pack of cheap beer he hates, a pack of Marlboro lights, filtered, since he knows he'll finally be kissing you again, a bag of those corn chips that make his fingers taste like cheese. He's almost at the counter before he thinks better of it, turns back around and moves back down the aisles. 

It's been almost two months since he's seen you, since he's touched you. And he's desperate for you, _hungry_ for you, starving in a way that can't possibly be sated until he's seated inside you again, until he's got his arms around you again. 

He buys the cologne you like, that sometimes has you burying your nose under his arms or against his chest just so you can smell him. He'll spray it on on the way out, bath himself in it, anoint himself in the scent if only just because it reminds him of you. Next he grabs a bottle of mouthwash, he'd been so crazed leaving the safe house that he hadn't even though to do so. He just had to get to you. 

He pays and drives and drives and drives, eyes glued to the rear mirror, watching for a following car, watching for any sign of danger to you. It takes him more than an hour to get to you, to the house he had become so familiar with, when it should only have taken twenty minutes. He parks two streets down and walks the rest of the way, relief flooding through him as he finds your car in the driveway. 

He didn't know what he thought you would be doing tonight. But it was Saturday night and it had been two months since he had been able to talk to you. He didn't know what he thought. 

He turns around the side of the house, frowning as he sees how the grass has grown over the last few months without his big boots to tramp down on it. He circles around the building, looks in the glowing gold windows. Wonders what you're doing, are you thinking of him, do you miss him? 

His hand shakes as he knocks on the sliding glass of the back door, stamps his fag out in the little purple ashtray that was right where he left it on the back patio, as if he had just set it out there the previous night. Duke barks and he smiles when he hears the pup he had trained to protect you is doing his job. When your face appears in the space between the blinds, a bit startled and pale from the surprise of a knock in the middle of the night, he can't help but release the breath he hadn't known he was holding. 

Flip says your name like he can't believe it's really you, watches the fog of his breath dissipate in the cold air like smoke. You try to pull open the door, to flip the latch and undo the lock so quick that you can't quite manage it, until the two of you are pawing at the glass door like children who haven't yet figured out the function of a doorknob. 

When you finally get the door open you're on him so fast that he looses his footing and tumbles backwards, falling on his back in the cold grass and he doesn't give a fuck about the temperature or the dirt or anything at all, not with your weight back in his arms, your lips besotting him with kisses, your eyes leaking big, fat tears that he kisses away before finally settling back at your lips. 

You say his name over and over like a prayer, like a song, kissing him and kissing him and kissing him. He feels drunk, he feels more sober than he's ever been. He's angry that he's missed so much time with you, he's happy that he has you now. He wants you here and now, wants you in your bed or on your sofa or on the marble kitchen counter where he's had you a hundred times. He wants to feel your bare skin on his, wants his cock in your mouth, wants his cock inside of you so deep that he can see it in your belly as he fucks up into you. 

It was stupid, so utterly, completely, _ridiculously_ stupid to be here. He was risking the case, risking his life, risking your life. He couldn't stand it, not being with you right now. It felt like he couldn't think without you there to share his thoughts with, couldn't sleep without you curled against him, couldn't breathe without you there breathing with him.

"Flip." you moan, feeling his lips at the column of your neck, sucking big red marks you'll be able to see for the next week. You're writhing on top of him, got your arms and legs wrapped around him, got your hips pressed to his and your belly heaving against his. "Flip. Flip. Flip."

It's like you're not sure if he's really there, not sure if it's not a dream. Thinking that you've been dreaming of him makes his chest flood even deeper with pleasure, the heat of your smile and your bright eyes and your warm kisses making him feel simultaneously heavy and light, so small and so big, like he might kiss you so deep that he might just swallow you whole. 

The backyard is bathed in moonlight, the silver gleaming off your skin like it was pouring right out of you, and he drinks it down, your words and your moans and that bright white light rolling off of you, until he's not sure whose hands have pushed your nightshirt up over your shoulders, whose hands have undone his belt and are working at the buttons of his jeans. 

He knows his fingers are the ones tracing over your smooth skin, holding you close, knows its his face that nuzzles between the cavern of your breasts and his lips that suck each of your pert nipples into his mouth as he drives up your nightshirt. You push his jacket down his shoulders, bury your hands under his flannel shirt and make him jump from the cold of your fingers as your hands smooth over his belly and chest, as you feel him tense beneath you as your hips work against his. 

His cock is so hard he can feel it leaking, and the way it's pushed up against the denim painful, and you seem to read his mind for soon your fingers are working at his zipper and pushing his jeans down his thighs as you urge him to lift his hips for you. 

Beside your writhing bodies the puppy you had both fallen in love with stops nipping at his heels and yipping happily at the sight of his dad, sinking down on the rug before the door and falling into sleep— as content in your company as Flip is. 

You turn to look over at the dog for a moment, more than glad you hadn't thought to switch on the outside lights and he takes advantage of the distraction to flip you over, settling your back on the grass below his coat so you don't get so dirty, so you don't have to lie on the cold, hard earth. You part your legs for him, lets him settle into the cradle of your hips as though he had never left, and he wiggles your underwear down your legs until they tangle at your ankles and he can pull them free, shoving them into his back pocket so that he doesn't have to miss you quite so much when he's gone. 

"Sweetheart..." he begins, feels your cunt clench against his thick fingers as you roll your hips beneath him, as desperate as him, as hungry. You push your hips up against his fingers, seeking friction, seeking relief. "I missed you so much I—"

"I know." You say, and he nods, because you probably do, you always do. "I know, baby. I know." 

He feels you jump against him as his fingers slide across your folds, moving right to the place that makes you moan audibly in the cold, dark yard, that makes your puppy lift his head from where he had curled up before the door. 

It's cold outside but he can feel sweat slip down his back and chest despite it, can see it beading at the hollow of your throat and the crest of your brow. He catches it with hurried, hungry kisses, savoring the taste of you, craving every part of you, so that if he wasn't so desperate to be inside of you he would have buried his face between your legs and had you screaming loud enough for the whole neighborhood to hear. 

"Flip." You say, breathless, chest heaving, nipples pebbled in the cold night air so that he resolves to warm them with his big palms. "Honey please. Please, I need you, I _need_ you."

It's his turn to say, "I know." Just once, before he pushes into you, sets you both to moaning in pleasure and relief. He feels himself sinking home, falling back into your arms as if he had never left. He grabs at your legs, hungry, lifting them up and over his hips where his jeans are hanging so low. 

It's been too long, he won't last. Can't last, when you're gripping him like that, pulsating around his cock as you writhe and moan and fuck— you feel so good he can barely even breathe. When your legs are around him and your body drapes limp against his, when your lips are searing hot against his cheeks and you part your lips to let him swallow all those moans you offer. When your body is moving against his as it always does, reading the signals he offers, the tightness of his belly, the trembling of his thighs, so that you know just where to touch him, tease him, taste him.

He doesn't care if you're loud. Doesn't care if the whole neighborhood knows what the two of you are doing. Doesn't care if the whole city gathers around to watch him fuck you, right there in the backyard where you hosted barbecues for the squad in the summer or where you had thrown Ron a surprise party just a few months prior, when Flip had spent much of the evening with one hand around the neck of a beer and the other tucked into the back of your jeans, teasing, squeezing, kneading your ass just hard enough to have your panties soaked by the end of the night. 

You taste so sweet he can’t help but kiss you, taste you, let his tongue tease and roll yours until you’re so breathless and he’s so lightheaded that he has to pull away, so he leans his forehead against yours instead and meets your eyes. You smile at him even when he snaps his hips up against yours and knocks the breath out of you, cheeks splashed with pink and red, and you look at him with the same relief he feels in his eyes. 

“I love you.” he groans, burying his face between your neck and shoulder, inhaling your scent and tasting your sweat. Your hand strokes along the his head and down the back of his neck, cradling his head against your body and pulling you to him. 

“I l-love you.” You gasp as he changes position, hauls your leg up over his broad shoulder so he can hilt deeper in you, the head of his cock hitting that spot that makes you throw your head back like you’ve been possessed. Your other leg slung low on his hips, pushing his jeans even further down his long legs, feeling the way his thick thighs flexed with the force of fucking you. 

“Oh-h G-God—“ you keen, pushing your tits out in surprise as he grazed over your pert nipple with the tips of his teeth, biting just hard enough to tip over into a pain that only added to the pleasure. You felt overstimulated. You felt not stimulated enough. “I’m c-close. I’m close. I’m...I’m gonna—“ 

“Come on, honey.” he says, crowding down on top of you, pushing his hand down on your belly so he can feel his cock driving in and out of you. His free hand slips down between your legs and finds your clit with practiced ease, an accuracy curated by a lifetime of making you come. “Wanna feel you come on my cock. Wanna feel you come on my cock like I’ve been dreaming of.” 

Your hips jerk as you come, so that he has to push your hips back down against the grass to keep you still, the hand spread over your hips and belly making you seem tiny. The sounds of your moan ricochets across the quiet yard like a stone on still water and he grins, hopes they're keeping that old bat Mrs. Clearey awake. 

He can see tears glistening on the slopes of your cheeks, matching the wetness that spills over his hand as you come, the wetness eating away at the dry fabric at the front of his jeans and the creased jacket beneath you, and he’s glad, glad he’ll be able to smell you on him for days. 

In the throes of your orgasm your cunt had gone were tight as a closed fist around his cock, your walls quivering through the aftershocks of pleasure, and he tips your hips back and holds you down to be able to keep thrusting into you, pinning you down with a hand between your breasts. 

Your moans are half muffled by the way you bury your face between his neck and shoulder, biting down just hard enough to mark the skin. He's so close to his climax that he can practically taste the relief on his tongue. He nuzzles at your tits, lets his teeth graze across each of your pebbled nipples just hard enough to make you shiver in his arms. 

"God-" he moans, grins at the way you jerk in his arms when you feel the head of his cock press into the curve of your cervix.

His legs clench tight as an orgasm builds in the low of his belly, a tingling electricity clawing at the inside of his chest and tightening his skin. He snaps his hips forward, pulling your legs up higher over his hips, easing up on the pressure of his fingers on your clit without pulling away completely, knowing your body well enough to know you’ll be able to come for him again. 

Flip is almost overwhelmed at so much physical contact after so long without you, so long in the safe house with just his right hand and the ghost of your memory, and he wants to stay in this moment forever. Wants to feel you clench and pull at him, your moans reverberating in his ears, your face pressing into his broad chest as your lips suck red marks into his skin. 

He wants to memorise the look in your eyes, the expression on your face, the way you look up at him, eyes so bright and wide, glowing silver in the bare moonlight. He’s been thinking about you, dreaming about you, licking his palm and bringing himself off just looking at that wrinkled up old polaroid of you hidden behind another frame at the safe house, freshly fucked and glowing, all sleepy eyes and swollen lips and skin that still shone with the sweat he’d rubbed off onto you. 

And now he’s got you again, got you back in his arms where you belong, where he can touch you and slip his fingers in your mouth and feel your breath against his chest. You’re the only thing that mattered. Not the case, not the perps, not the nosy fucking neighbors that were rude to you when you took Duke on a walk each night. As far as Flip was concerned there was only you, only _ever_ you.

"Please. Phil, honey, _please_." You gasped out, clenching so tight around him that for a moment he could barely breathe as he pushed into you, digging his hands into your thighs, arching your back off the grass so that he could sheathe himself to the hilt inside you. 

"Fuck." He groaned against your open mouth, feeling your tongue slide across his teeth, swallowing down your moans like they were his. _And they were_. 

Then he realised, a sobering thought striking him. He might be gone for months, maybe a year, on this mission. Might leave you on your own at the house, without him to care for your sore feet or rub your swollen belly or hold your hair back if you were sick in the mornings, and it made his stomach twist, made him pull back to pull out of you as his cock began to throb with the start of his orgasm. 

It must have shown on his face because then you’re there, gripping his shoulders in your small hands and winding your legs around his naked hips, holding him to you, locking him in place with your long long legs and keeping him from pulling away from you. He's overcome with relief, with pleasure, with love, that he almost screams from the overwhelmingness of it all. 

You curse under your breath as he holds you tight to him, his hips slowing as he pushes in and out of you, wanting to fill you up as he's wanted to for weeks and weeks and weeks. He sinks down on top of you, suddenly too exhausted even to lift himself up on his arms, to even pull out of you, and whispers against the shell of your ear how good you feel, how much he missed you, how much he loves you. 

"I love you." He breathes, panting, a shaking hand reaching up to brush the sweaty hair from your brow. He wants to stay in this moment forever, wants to stay in you forever, wants to fuck you forever. "You're too good for me, sweetheart."

"Don't start with me, Phillip Zimmerman." You said, mock stern. Your thumbs run over his cheeks, his nose, over his kiss swollen mouth before brining your lips to them. "You know I hate it when you say those things."

He lets his head drop against your chest, struggling to catch his breath, lavishing in the way your fingers carded through his dark hair. "I just had to see you, honey." he says, like he's reading the question in your mind. And maybe he is, he always seems to know just what you're thinking. "I couldn't stand it anymore. I missed you." 

You smile up at him, fingers curling around his ears to stroke them just like he likes. "I missed you too." You said, and even though he knew it still makes his heart jump in his chest. "Do..." you began, licking your lips. He could see the darkness edge into your face and it made his chest ache. "When do you have to go back?" 

He dips down to kiss you again, long and slow, his tongue exploring every inch of you as though it were the first time again, and by the time he pulls away you're breathless and your cheeks are pink and bright. "Not yet." he says, already adjusting himself to grind against your open legs. "Not until the morning." 

Your face brightens again and you lick your lips, sliding your hands down his broad back. "That's a long time." you said, ignoring the way your neighbor's lights have flicked on. "What are we gonna do in all that time?" 

Flip grins and pinches one of your nipples, making you yelp in surprise and overstimulated pleasure. "I can think of a few things." 


End file.
